


Proximity

by willneverbeordinary



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (because Hannibal), (in a very pretentious aesthetic and poetical way), Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Hand Jobs, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will is a bit slow to catch on, descriptions of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willneverbeordinary/pseuds/willneverbeordinary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal went over the cliff and disappeared from the world of the living. They have hidden away in a small cabin as their wounds slowly heal and Hannibal wants what Will seems to struggle with asking for.</p><p>  <i>"They are pressed close in the dark, Hannibal's palm on Will's chest. Will's heart is beating steadily underneath his hand. Some nights he would press so hard that it felt as if Will’s heart rested in his hand, as if it thumped steadily, cradled in Hannibal’s firm grip. </i></p><p>  <i>[---] </i></p><p>  <i>He lets his thoughts wander and they seem to collect around a shape that makes up his idea of Will. It’s a collection of light and color, sight and sound. In his mind it all connects to a composition of fragrances. Together it forms a work of art. Something of blood and theory; intent and instinct bound and wrought into shape. Visceral and divine.  Hannibal’s thoughts coil around the image of Will clad in the Dragon’s black blood and the moon’s silver light and he closes his eyes and feels his pulse jump just like it did then."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of proximity and intamacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anorexorcist13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorexorcist13/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on an idea/prompt by [anorexorcist13](http://anorexorcist13.tumblr.com/)
> 
> “you know, if I had any writing skills I would write a post-cliff fic where Will has the hots for Hanni, but he’s wildly in denial about anything hannigram related (no fiction there), basically he thinks Hanni’s a straight dude (lmfao amirite) and his love for him is totally not sexual, so he just sTRUGGLES DAILY
> 
> ~~but then hanniboners happen”~~

They are pressed close in the dark, Hannibal's palm on Will's chest. Will's heart is beating steadily underneath his hand. Some nights he would press so hard that it felt as if Will’s heart rested in his hand, as if it thumped steadily, cradled in Hannibal’s firm grip.  
  
The slow healing of their bodies is an affair of proximity and intimacy. Partially because Hannibal tends to Will’s wounds, touches that stems from necessity, and partially because they fabricate unspoken agreements to sleep next to each other.  
  
Will had yet to touch him, apart from helping to redress Hannibal's gunshot wound. Touches that were precise, clinical, detached. If ever he lingered he would pull away as if suddenly burned. All Hannibal had was the moments during the night, hidden away in darkness and swaddled in sleep. He had not the mornings, for Will would roll out of bed and not meet his eyes again until they sat down for breakfast. He certainly did not have the days that kept passing. A week, two weeks, three weeks, a month, two months since they went over the cliff.  
  
Hannibal shifts closer to Will, only a little. He feels the heat from his body, can scent blood, still, from the wound in Will's cheek. He feels Will's heartbeat like an anchor holding him securely though his mind reels and crashes upon an endless sea. He imagines the moment they went over, can almost feel the wind in his hair. He remembers smiling. For a moment the image of Will sprouting wings had flared up, bright and impossibly beautiful in his mind. Then they had cut through the surface. Died, drowned, baptized and reborn.  
  
His grip tightens.  
  
“Hannibal.” Will's voice is low; syllables imprecise in their slow, rough slide off his tongue.  
  
Hannibal lets up.  
  
Will turns then, wraps his arm around Hannibal and pulls. It is hardly enough to shift him, but Hannibal obliges and allows himself to be pulled into Will's arms. He can't keep his hand on Will's chest, can't keep his fingers closed around his beating heart, and something flares deep within his ribcage. His lips curl and his body tenses but Will loops an arm securely around his waist, pulling Hannibal against his body, and he mumbles ‘sleep’ with his nose against Hannibal's hair, lips the ghost of a touch upon Hannibal's neck. Hannibal's heart jumps, it leaps and runs, but the sensation that had flared up in his chest is gone and with his fingers finding and curling around Will's wrist, fingertips to the steady pulse, he does fall asleep.

The next morning he wakes up to an empty bed.

Before his eyes flutter open he breathes in and he listens and he is met by cold and quiet. He reaches out and places a hand on the mattress where it has lost the heat Will’s body had lent to it during the night. He can pick up the faint trace of Will’s scent. Hannibal opens his eyes and throws a glance at the door, which has been left a fraction ajar, and rolls onto Will’s side of the bed. He buries his face in the pillow and inhales. It smells of outdoors activates, wet leaves and waterlogged air, of firewood burning, and of something sweet. Heavy raindrops or woodland lakes.

Slowly Hannibal lifts his head, sits up and gets out of bed. He is wearing only sleepwear pants and doesn't put anything else on as he leaves the room and heads to the bathroom. Closing and locking the door he steps out of those as well, picks them up and folds them before putting them in the laundry hamper. He leans into the shower, adjusts the temperature and turns the water on. It takes a minute or so to heat up and when it does he steps in under the spray. Hannibal tilts his head back and lets the water hit his face and stream down his chest. He ducks his head and runs his hands through his hair, letting out a deep sigh. There is almost no other smell than the smell of fresh water and Hannibal smiles and rests his palms against the wall as he lets it run down his back.

He lets his thoughts wander and they seem to collect around a shape that makes up his idea of Will. It’s a collection of light and color, sight and sound. In his mind it all connects to a composition of fragrances. Together it forms a work of art. Something of blood and theory; intent and instinct bound and wrought into shape. Visceral and divine.  Hannibal’s thoughts coil around the image of Will clad in the Dragon’s black blood and the moon’s silver light and he closes his eyes and feels his pulse jump just like it did then. He remembers Will reaching for him and how his ribcage had cracked wide open as time had come to a stop when Will had embraced him. He remembers Will as the wrench in the cogs, something that broke the ticking of Hannibal’s heart, stopped it like a clock. And how it heaved into life again, swelled and ebbed like a tide that sent scarlet waves rushing though his veins.

He draws a breath and exhales in a rush.

Hannibal licks his bottom lip into his mouth. He lets his hand touch to where Will’s head had rested before they went over and it translates to a quick inhale and a spark that tingles as his body remembers. He slides it lower, down over his chest, over his stomach; the water from the showerhead a constant stream on his body but his mind recalls a red, smeared out mess instead of the water’s gentle trickle. He gasps another breath and closes his eyes more firmly, stopping for a moment. His hand touches the compressor and the wound underneath feels fresh and sharp still. He leaves it be and touches lower yet. With a muffled, clipped groan he runs his hand over his hard length and with another hushed grunt he grips and gives a few hard strokes. His hips twitch and lips part in a pantomime of sound. There is a buzzing underneath his skin and something that claws and twists inside.  With a heavy exhale he lets go and presses his palms back against the wall and ducks his head underneath the stream again.

He breathes in and out, deliberately slow, until his heart stops pounding.

With slow motions, and with the inhales and exhales to follow them precisely, he washes his hair.  After he turns the water off, he spends a moment motionless. He pays attention to the sounds of the house, the small creaks, the wind moving past it and through it. He feels the steam swirl around him and sees how it has fogged up the bathroom mirror. He hears Will moving about out in the living room before there is the creak of the armchair and then the footsteps fall silent.

Taking another deep breath he steps out of the shower, unlocks the bathroom door and heads for the bedroom.

If Will had asked Hannibal exactly why he had decided to do that without wearing anything, Hannibal would have answered honestly.

But Will doesn’t ask.

Hannibal sees him as he crosses the small living room and Will’s eyes dart up to meet his before he all but falls out of the chair he is sitting in and hurriedly disappears through the back door, closing it quickly behind him. 

Hannibal stops in his tracks at tilts his head as he watches Will through the window. Will disappears from view inbetween the trees and Hannibal’s eyes narrow at the sight. The seconds tick by into minutes but Will doesn’t return and Hannibal finally makes his way over to the drawers in the bedroom. He opens the top one and traces his fingers over woolen sweaters. He stops his hands at a knitted, Prussian blue one and picks it up. Then he quickly proceeds to gather the rest of his clothes. He puts his underwear on and spends some time redressing his wound before he puts the rest of the clothes on.

A glance at the clock tells him that it’s approaching noon.

With the few last notes of Chopin’s Nocturne Op.9 No.1, its pleasant _tierce de Picardie,_ sounds Hannibal pours the freshly squeezed orange juice into two Collins glasses and Will enters through the same door he disappeared through half an hour ago. Hannibal puts the pitcher down and looks at him. The chill of the air has dusted a faint rose color onto his cheeks. His hair is damp and darkened and strand of it curls over the scar on his forehead, the rest brushed aside in somewhat messy waves. He has paused to pull his sweater off and as he pulls it over his head, making a mess of his hair, he meets Hannibal’s eyes. Will gives him a quick smile that he returns but which slips as Will throws the sweater on the armchair before taking his seat. Hannibal’s eyes linger on the garment. His fingers grab the back of his chair, head still turned in the direction of the armchair. He starts to pull out his chair but lets it go and walks over to the sweater, picks it up and folds it.

He does not look at Will when he returns to the table and sist down.

“I would have picked it up.”

Hannibal looks at him then and says nothing. He picks up his knife and fork and turns the knife in his hand, catching the gleam of the sunlight filtering through the windows on the edge of its blade. He gives a curl of his lips.

“Freshly squeezed orange juice, Monte Cristo with Havarti cheese and cinnamon and cayenne, served with eggs benedict,” Hannibal says before cutting a small piece of his sandwich.

“And I am going to shower,” Will says and takes a large drink of his juice.

From the corner of his eye, Hannibal watches Will's throat bob as he swallows.

“Is there a particular reason you are being prickly, Will?” Hannibal asks, taking another bite, tilting his head somewhat, watching Will as he chews and swallows.

Will isn’t eating. He pulls his eyebrows together and Hannibal can see how the corners of his mouth dip down. “Is there a reason you’re wearing my sweater?”

“No,” Hannibal says before another bite.

“Are there more than one reason? Or just your curiosity?” Will’s eyes narrow as he speaks, his lips twitch.

Hannibal smiles. Will’s clever mind working out the shape and tangle of Hannibal’s own thoughts warms him to the very core. It’s a honeyed, molten, golden feeling to watch his cunning boy put puzzle pieces into place.

“You’re being cruel,” Will tells him, words like sharp shards of ice.

Will picks up his knife and fork and begins to cut pieces and eat, eyes on his food, but Hannibal has stopped. He frowns. His fingers touch the sweater’s wristlet absently and he looks at Will but Will eats in silence. Hannibal resumes eating, he too looking only at his own plate. When Will pushes his chair back, Hannibal looks at him as he takes the empty plate and glass to the sink. Hannibal watches him rinse and clean and dry them and put them away and when he turns Hannibal looks down again and he keeps his eyes downcast as Will moves through the cabin and then closes and locks the bathroom door. Then he gets up to clear the table and do the rest of the dishes.

When Hannibal is done tidying up he retreats to the bed with a book and he reads until he hears the bathroom door unlock and the quiet fall of Will’s footsteps heading towards the bedroom. He doesn’t look up as the door quietly swings open but he isn’t reading anymore. From the corner of his eye he sees Will approach the bed slowly and after a moment of standing still the mattress dips under his weight.

Hannibal turns the page.

At first Will lies down on his back, hands clasped and resting on his stomach. Then he turns onto his side and pulls his legs up, curling in on himself.

Hannibal turns the page again.

Slowly Will shuffles a bit closer and when he butts his forehead gently against Hannibal’s arm, Hannibal moves it. He keeps letting his eyes scan over the pages and keeps turning them but his gaze flicks down again and again to where Will’s head is resting in his lap. When Will places a hand on Hannibal’s leg, just above the knee, and breathes out a puff of warm air that Hannibal feels through the fabric of his pants, he lets his own hand drop to Will’s head. Gently he cards his fingers through Will’s damp hair. He’s still holding the book with one hand but all his focus is on Will. He feels Will’s grip tighten and when it does Hannibal grabs and tugs at Will’s hair and hears him gasp quietly.

Hannibal puts the book away.

“Sorry,” Will mumbles then and carefully extracts himself. He rolls over to the other side of the bed and swings his legs over the edge, sitting up.

Will sighs and stands and he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. Hannibal tilts his head and looks at the closed door and then he picks the book back up again.

They don’t touch or speak for the reminder of the day and when they go to bed in the evening, Will turns on his side, facing away from Hannibal.

He still allows Hannibal’s hand over his heart and Hannibal falls asleep with its strong, quick beat thudding underneath his palm.

   


	2. Of blood and beauty

His muscles coil and his mind shapes the idea to strike at the body behind him but he catches Will’s scent and relaxes. Now Hannibal is awake, though, and he feels Will curled up against him and he feels tiny thrust of Will’s hips as he presses hard and insistent against Hannibal. Will’s mouth is hot and damp against Hannibal’s naked shoulder and he’s making hushed but heavy noises, moans and gasps that seem to gather inside Hannibal’s belly. It turns his core molten and a cut-off groan slips past his lips. He presses back and feels Will’s hand on him gripping his hip and pulling him into the thrusts. He gives another groan and then he finds himself flat on his belly and Will a solid weight draped over him, hips still working. He arches up and feels Will’s teeth close around the meat of his shoulder, though he doesn’t bite down. Hannibal growls and arches his back and Will grinds down against him. He grips at the sheet and twists it in his hands, baring his teeth and giving short, low moans as he rolls his body to meet Will’s movements and he feels the head of Will’s cock poking past the waistband of Will’s underwear and each thrust drags a slick line of precum against Hannibal’s lower back and it smears onto his sleepwear pants and he closes his eyes tightly and feels the hot liquid center of him spill into a deep moan.

“Will,” he grits out and arches back hard.

Will stills immediately and his body goes tense. Then he is off Hannibal and out of the bed and out of the room and Hannibal lays there looking at the door left wide open. He hears the barroom door close and lock and the sound of Will getting into the shower and the groaning of the pipes as the water is turned on. He drops his head back onto the pillow and lays there with his eyes closed for a moment before he slowly gets out of bed and plucks a tissue from the box on his nightstand to clean himself off. He drops it in the trashcan when he passes it and goes to his clothes, neatly folded on the chair by the drawers. He runs a hand over the knitted blue sweater and leaves it on the chair. Instead he picks a chocolate brown one from the middle drawer, as well as a clean pair of pants.

When Hannibal exits the bedroom and goes to make Will and himself coffee, Will comes out of the bathroom. He’s wrapped in two towels and his teeth clatter as he hurries into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Hannibal cocks his head and quirks his lips. He hears Will rummage around and when he reappears he doesn't have only his usual t-shirt and pants on but also thick, woolen socks and the Prussian blue sweater. Hannibal lifts an eyebrow but Will looks at the floor as he walks over. Will leans up against the counter, hands resting on the countertop and Hannibal brings him a cup of coffee. A spoonful of sugar. No milk. Will takes it and curls both hands around it.

“Would you help me prepare breakfast today, Will?” Hannibal says, looking at Will.

Will keeps his eyes on the cup in his hands then lifts his head slowly, arching an eyebrow. “I could probably chop something.”

“Yes. Parsley.” Hannibal says and puts his cup down. He opens the refrigerator and brings out two eggs, mushrooms and cream. “I was thinking omelet today.”

Will takes a sip of coffee and moves to the window where the herbs are. He picks the pot with basil and Hannibal opens his mouth but Will shoots him a large grin and puts it back to reach for the parsley and, putting down his cup, a knife and chopping block.

Hannibal whisks the egg in a bowl and grinds black pepper and adds it to the eggs together with salt. He looks over to where Will is chopping the herb with his back to Hannibal. Hannibal puts his bowl down and reaches for a pan, leaning against Will and Will throws him a glance over the shoulder. Hannibal moves over to the stove and goes to retrieve the bowl, brushing against Will to do so. It earns him another glance and a furrowed brow.  

He keeps moving about, retrieving things, turning on the stove, taking the chopped herbs and leaning against Will’s back as he does so, and giving Will mushrooms to dice. Will starts chopping them unevenly in haphazard chunks and Hannibal has to make his hands unclench around the handle of the frying pan and pull the corners of his mouth up from where they have fallen into a displeased shape. He puts the pan to the side and turns the burner down and moves over to stand behind Will. At first he looks over Will’s shoulder, close but with half an inch of space still left between their bodies. The air between them is warm. Hannibal smiles to himself as he breathes in Will’s scent.  _Lakes and raindrops._ He turns his head, mouth close to Will’s ear.

“Shape is part of what determines texture which changes the experience of the course.”

A muscle in Will’s jaw jumps. Hannibal touches Will’s wrist gently and slides his hand down to cover his. He moves it as he leans in closer, letting their bodies touch. He hears and feels Will breath in, short and sharp.

“The right shape is much more satisfying.” He murmurs it close to Will’s ear, lips brushing ever so slightly against the shell. “Attention to detail is paramount.”

He sees Will’s eyelids flutter and he gently takes the knife from him, putting it to the side. Will’s eyes slide shut then and he presses both hands flat against the countertop, inhaling a shaky breath.

Hannibal presses against Will and lets his lips touch to Will’s pulse point. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply; feeling the scent coil inside, trickle down, warm and thick like blood. Will drops his head and makes a breathy sound, pushes back just a little. Hannibal moves his hands, clutches at Will’s hips and pushes his own hips forward. He’s hard and he hears the small gasp Will makes and feels how he grinds back in slow, little motions. Will shifts, turns himself around so that he’s facing Hannibal instead. His eyes are dark, his lips parted and his breathing heavy. His gaze doesn’t make it past Hannibal’s lips at first but linger there for a long moment. Then he meets Hannibal’s eyes and Hannibal feels his own pulse jump once more.

Then Will’s lidded gaze becomes more focused and he looks at Hannibal with a furrowed brow. “I thought it wasn't  _physical._ I assumed that it transcended that for you.”

Hannibal can feel his lips twist into a tight expression and he steps back, putting more than a few inches between them. His hands clench into fists and he unclenches them and pushes them the front pockets of his pants.

“I'm flattered you would think of me as above and beyond human.”

Will quirks an eyebrow at him. “But you are human?”

“I am in fact entirely human,” Hannibal says.

Furrowing his brow Will doesn't speak or move but merely looks at him. An image flickers in his mind of grabbing Will by his hair and bashing his head against the counter. Instead of doing so he lets his eyelids drop a fraction, quirks his lips just a little and speaks in a low voice. “Will, do you want to kiss me?”

He sees Will’s eyes widen, sees his Adam’s apple jump and watches as his tongue darts out to lick his lower lip. Hannibal smiles at him and sees Will’s eyes go dark again and sees the slight rise of color to his cheeks.

“I-” Will begins, tongue darting out again to wet his bottom lip. “Yes.”

“Then, please, Will,” Hannibal says, hearing how strained his own voice sounds. “ _Please_ do so.”

Slowly Will reaches out and his fingers find and close around the knitted wool of Hannibal’s sweater. He pulls and Hannibal follows. Will’s gaze roams his face and his breathing is coming in gasps, just on the verge of making small sounds. His hand trembles against Hannibal’s body. Hannibal breathes in the scent of him. He watches through half closed eyes how Will sways closer. He parts his lips on an exhale and when the air Will breathes in is the air Hannibal breathes out a moan claws its way free and tumbles past his lips.

It's then that Will’s lips touches his and he leans into it and feels Will’s hands on his body and he clutches at Will’s clothes and feels Will press against him. He feels the touch of tongue to his lips and parts them and Will’s tongue pushes into his mouth.

Finally, finally,  _finally,_ Hannibal gets to  _taste_ him.

The symphony inside his mind, all the notes that had breathed into existence and which made up the melody of touch and thought between them, falls quiet for a moment. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, it rushes back in unique arrangements of iron and warmth. Hannibal cups Will’s face, thumbs gently caressing his cheeks, and every taste is a sound ringing clear; all of them shaping a complex whole. Will grabs Hannibal’s hip, his shoulder, pulls them flush together with a small moan and Hannibal feels his blood burn through his veins. When Will pushes against him he almost staggers but he adjusts and walks backwards as Will stumbles forwards. Shaking hands pull his sweater off along the way and when he falls onto his back on their bed, Will only partially covers Hannibal’s body with his own as one hand travels from Hannibal’s sternum and across his stomach to press a warm palm against the bulge of Hannibal's erection through his pants. Will's hand moves and Hannibal arches into the touch and he strains to place his lips to Will’s and when Will dips down to meet him, he grabs a hold of Will’s hair. Will gasps against his mouth then and Hannibal tugs and he smiles as Will gives a breathy moan. His body thrums and his fingers itch to touch and he tightens his grip on his handful of hair. Will unzips Hannibal’s pants and makes an attempt at tugging them off his hips but Hannibal rolls them over instead. He barely supports his own weight, pressing Will against the mattress and listening to his heavy breathing turning strained but never feeling Will’s hands ceasing to slides up and down his back and sides. Letting up a little, he shifts onto an elbow but closes a hand around Will’s throat, feeling his pulse drum against his fingers. All the life roaring beneath his hands, thrumming through the body he’s pressing down against, and it makes something inside him soar. Will is looking at him through lidded eyes, wet lips parted around exhales just on the verge of moans, and Hannibal lets up and caresses Will’s cheek.

“How is the pain in your shoulder?”

Will blinks slowly and frowns. His hands still. “Sever.”

“And your cheek?”

“It stings and it doesn’t seem like it heals.” His frown deepens. “How is your wound?”

“A mild discomfort.” Hannibal watches his thumb travel across Will’s bottom lip.

Will kisses the pad of his thumb before speaking. “You’re reactions to pain are atypical.”

Hannibal nods at him.

“Both your response to your own pain and to the pain of others.”

“What does that suggest to you?”

Will shakes his head, moving it side to side against the pillow. “No. You know what I am going to say. You expect what I would say. I would be describing the Ripper to you again, you’ve heard me say it before. There is just more nuance to the description now.”

Will looks into his eyes and Hannibal wonders for a moment at the splendor that whorls inside them, beneath and beyond just mere color.

“I  _see_  you.” Will knits his brow somewhat. His hand presses against Hannibal’s chest. “Right now you’re heart is pounding.”

Slowly Hannibal’s lips curl into a smile and he bends down to kiss Will, to let him steal the air right from his lungs and send his heart into a quick and painful sprint. Their clothes get shed slowly, every movement measured to not place stress on their wounds. Once they lay naked in each other’s embrace Hannibal touches his lips to Will’s and feels them part and he licks his way inside. The sensation of it rushes through him and he feels his muscles coil and he curls his back, threads his fingers through Will’s hair and he feels himself tremble.

Will’s taste is a siren song of blood and beauty.

Hannibal pulls away from Will’s mouth and trails his lips down Will’s chin and neck, leaving a smear of red. He kisses down Will’s chest, down his stomach, and Will’s hands grasp at his hair and Hannibal can feel how they shake. A shiver runs through Will as Hannibal presses his lips to his erection and he tries to watch Will’s expression as he swallows him down but Will pushes his head back against the pillow and throws and arm over his face. Hannibal reaches up with his left hand to trace the scar on Will’s stomach and feels how Will twitches and jerks his hips to push himself deeper, more firmly, into Hannibal’s mouth. He places his palm against the scar, splays his fingers, and feels the pulse pounding beneath the skin. Will is making small noises and his heels dig into the mattress and the muscles in his thighs flex as he presses his legs against Hannibal’s body. Hannibal feels fingers thread through his hair, gently cards it back and if it had been long it would have stayed gathered in Will’s hand. Those hands stroke his shoulders, tries to grasp his left hand and intertwine their fingers and he shakes off the soft and gentle touches and pulls off. Will doesn’t move, he lays there with eyes closed and breathes almost even breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Chest rising and falling. Laying down beside him, Hannibal grabs his arm and tugs, guides his hips, until Will is straddling his chest.

“Hannibal?”

Hannibal looks up at him and guides him forward, lifts his own head up and takes Will in his mouth again. Will curls forward and he hisses out a curse and Hannibal feels something contract in his own abdomen and his hips shift uselessly and find nothing but empty air. Hannibal reaches for Will's hand, places it around his own arm and stretches his arms out above his head and Will’s hips jerk, jabbing his cock against the back of Hannibal's throat, and his other hand instantly pins Hannibal’s other arm down as well. Will’s thrusts are short and he pushes deep and Hannibal struggles to breathe as Will fucks his mouth. He is submerged in the taste and scent of Will. When he blinks his eyes open he sees, through the tears that gather, Will as an idol on an illuminated Church window; fragments and color. Tiny shards coming together to shape a divinely inspired whole. Hannibal bends his legs, spreds them wide and helplessly shifts his hips. His fingers curls and flex and his jaw begins to ache. His throat feels raw as Will keeps sliding wetly past his lips to push deep.

Will’s rhythm falters and falls apart and with a moan he grabs the back of Hannibal's head and buries deep and comes down Hannibal’s throat, head thrown back and fingers digging into Hannibal’s arms, and Hannibal arches his back and groans. When Will pulls out Hannibal gulps for air. Will stays where he is for a moment and through the film of water in his eyes, Hannibal sees the image change into a soft-focused Renaissance painting of Will with his shoulders relaxed, jaw lax and his eyes half-closed and glowing.

Will rolls off of him and curls close and Hannibal strokes his hair and presses his hand to the scar on Will’s stomach and then clutches his hip, fingers digging in, and pulls them close together. The hot, liquid heat inside his belly flares and the flames lick trails of desire through his veins and it burns him up from the inside and consumes him whole. He is mumbling in Lithuanian against Will’s warm, warm skin as Will works a hand inbetween their bodies and strokes Hannibal to completion.

“Will,” he manages to breathe out on a shuddering exhale as he comes against Will and he presses his face to Will’s neck and breathes deeply. He rolls his hips, sliding his still hard length against Will's body, and just barely catches a growl from tearing past his clenched teeth as he rubs his release against Will's skin.

He stills eventually and shifts close, cups the back of Will’s head, traces his abdominal scar again before wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close, and he breathes in the scent that glows on Will’s heated skin and feels how his own body trembles. 

Will touches his cheek with his clean hand, a barely there brush of fingertips. “Are you crying?”

Hannibal attempts to nod and makes a noise that’s barely more than a shivering exhale.

“Did I hurt you?”

Hannibal pulls back a little and looks at Will, tries to catch his breath. He smiles. “You have done immense irreparable damage.”

“Yeah, not physically.” Will gives him a wry smile.

“Nothing that the mere passing of time won’t amend.”

“You’re feeling ‘inconvenienced’?” Will says, his eyebrows rising to accompany his slanted smile.

“Very.”

Will makes a sound that seems to be a laugh and he leans in and kisses Hannibal’s forehead.

They lay in silence for a while and Hannibal closes his eyes and focuses on Will’s hand on his chest, on the way the beat of his heart must echo against Will’s palm. For a brief moment he pictures Will tearing muscle and tissue and breaking past the ribs and plucking it right from his chest and his pulse jumps. He smiles and pulls Will even closer.

“We could have done this earlier,” Will mumbles then.

Hannibal gives a quiet, little laugh. He smiles at Will. “I doubt the extent of our injuries would have allowed for the experience.”

“It’s nice of you to pretend I haven’t been slow to catch on.”

Hannibal gently strokes back the curl that falls against Will’s forehead. “Perhaps your empathy makes it difficult to assess where your desires end and mine might begin.”

Will laughs, it’s shaky and breathy and with touches of something cold and iron-clad but there is a thread of gold in the noise as well. “I’ve wasted a lot of time.”

“Will, this has no tomorrow nor yesterday.” He cups Will’s cheek and Will meets his gaze with big eyes and a gaze that often seems so brittle it might break; a thin layer of ice over a strong, murky stream. “I saw my end and never saw myself living beyond that point. All things draw to their destruction, but not this.”

Will makes a huff that sounds like laughter and his palm presses more firmly against Hannibal’s chest and Hannibal's heart makes a painful, swelling beat in response. The man in his arms is as likely to rip his heart right from its moorings in a warm gush of thick scarlet as he is to continue to let it beat for him. In his mind he recalls Will straddling his chest and he is cast in stark contrasts; a chiaroscuro painting of dark and velvet red and black against golden skin and blood runs thick and glistening from his parted lips and his fingers curl around Hannibal's heart torn right from his chest, intact save the mouthful ripped from it by loving teeth.

“Only love does not decay?” Will says, closing his eyes and touching his forehead to Hannibal’s.

Hannibal smiles, caresses his cheek with his thumb. “Running it never runs from us away but truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All other things to their destruction draw,  
> Only our love hath no decay;  
> This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,  
> Running it never runs from us away,  
> But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day."  
> – The Anniversary by John Donne
> 
> John Donne (1572-1631) is the most noted of the so called "metaphysical poets" which were a group of (non-affiliated) English lyric poets known for their use of extended metaphors (conceits). "The Anniversary" can be read in its entierty [here.](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180679)
> 
> Chopin’s Nocturnes Op.9. No.2 is far more popular than the first and has actually appeared in the TV show _Hannibal_. I chose the first one, though, since I like it the most out of all the Op.9 Nocturnes (and I chose Chopin because not only he one of my own favourite composers but he happens to be one of Mads’ favourites and Mads’ would have liked for there to be more Chopin in Hannibal.) 
> 
> There are four canonical Renaissance painting techniques and sfumato is the one that's used to make the painting look soft, without visual transition between colours and tones. (The most prominent artist to use this technique was da Vinci and a famous example would be the Mona Lisa) 
> 
> And, just as a sidenote on the breakfast sandwich Hannibal served; I like the idea of using Havarti cheese as it is a Danish cheese and things like that amuses me.


End file.
